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Now, in a voice like lead slabs being dropped on granite, he says: YES.
I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU, he said, BUT I COULD MURDER A CURRY.
There seemed to be rather a lot of friendly young ladies who couldn’t afford many clothes.
“Sir?” YES? “What’s a curry?” The blue fires flared deep in the eyes of Death. HAVE YOU EVER BITTEN A RED-HOT ICE CUBE? “No, sir,” said Mort. CURRY’S LIKE THAT.
The answer flowed into his mind with all the inevitability of a tax demand.
He eased open the heavy oak door, and felt oddly disappointed when it failed to creak ominously.
Albert had heard of nutritional values, and didn’t hold with them.
You couldn’t help noting with every breath that thousands of other people were very close to you and nearly all of them had armpits.
“Well,----me,” he said. “A----ing wizard. I hate----ing wizards!” “You shouldn’t----them, then,” muttered one of his henchmen, effortlessly pronouncing a row of dashes.
WHO IS THIS FUN? “No, fun isn’t anybody, fun is what you have.” WE ARE HAVING FUN?
There should be a word for that brief period just after waking when the mind is full of warm pink nothing. You lie there entirely empty of thought, except for a growing suspicion that heading towards you, like a sockful of damp sand in a nocturnal alleyway, are all the recollections you’d really rather do without, and which amount to the fact that the only mitigating factor in your horrible future is the certainty that it will be quite short.
